My Trip to Gainesville, Part 2

This is a rather long article. I think the best way to handle it would be to continue publishing it in sections, so today will be Part 2, and it will cover my thoughts on the Old South and Old Florida, and the land where Nika1 lives. The next part, already written, will cover Cross Creek, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, and The Yearling Restaurant, where we ate dinner. The final part will be about another piece of Florida history, and the community, named for a Seminole Indian chief, that is believed to be the oldest inland town in the state.

OLD SOUTH/OLD FLORIDA

When I moved to Florida from New Jersey in 1981, I must admit that I brought some of my Yankee prejudices with me. To be honest, I never looked at southerners with disdain, nor did I see them as intellectually inferior because of their funny sounding dialects — funny to me, anyway — but let’s just say I was a little apprehensive because I was quite aware of their convoluted hatred for people of a different color, not to mention their resentment toward northerners. Of course, I didn’t expect everyone south of the Mason-Dixon Line to feel that way, and they don’t, but it wasn’t all that many years before I moved here that “coloreds” used different drinking fountains and bathrooms in many of those one-time Confederate states; Florida included. Even when I made my migration south, there were lingering reminders of inequality in places such as abandoned gas stations. Cobwebbed signs remained attached to bathroom doors as testaments to what they once proclaimed: WHITES ONLY. Like the old saying goes, we’ve come a long way, Baby, and so have I.

During my 31 years of living in Florida, I have embraced the South, but it has absolutely nothing to do with its racist past. It’s because of its rich history, steeped in genteel southern mannerisms; of virtuous young men politely courting delightfully flirtatious belles of innocence — patiently waiting for their coming of age — as they are introduced into the upper echelons of society. It was a romantic time, and in this respect, the South continues to maintain a unique essence of bygone days, deeply etched into it’s very heart and soul. But it’s fading fast in many areas, like Orlando, where fragrant foliage is ever replaced by the harsh realities of freshly poured asphalt and concrete, and fauna is pushed to the outer edges of what was once theirs with each passing breath. (I strongly encourage you to read: Beth Kassab: The Senator victim of Florida’s long history of neglect, Orlando Sentinel, Feb. 29, 2012)

Fortunately, pockets of the Old South continue to thrive, and throughout, you’ll find many notable plantations with antebellum homes, some still privately maintained, and others turned into historical landmarks or bed & breakfast inns. There are many towns and cities that thrive on their heritage, like Savannah, Charleston and Natchez. You’ll also find vast tracts of land that are, to this day, owned by the same families the properties were deeded to many years ago. In Florida, a lot of that land still thrives with citrus groves as far as the eye can see, and beef cattle grazing on the open range. Yes, much of it has been sold off, sometimes because of hard freezes, and other times over greed; but Florida is a good-sized state and there’s still plenty of private, pristine land around whose owners are proud of their history. They are proud to carry and pass the torches to future generations, just like it’s always been.

When I made my trek to the Gainesville area last month, I knew I was in for a special treat — one that epitomizes what I consider to be Old Florida. Of utmost importance, though, was that I would be spending time with Nika1, a lovely friend and host. Secondly, I would be visiting the town she lives in; truly a place I have a great appreciation for. I had been there once before. Also, she promised to take me to Cross Creek, and if you’re not familiar with it, it’s the little community where Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings lived for 25-years and wrote her Pulitzer prize-winning novel The Yearling. Her cracker-style home looks just like it did when she lived there in the 1930s. We were also going to have dinner at the adjacent restaurant, aptly named The Yearling Restaurant.

THE HOMESTEAD

I arrived at her homestead at 11:02 am, two minutes late. I hate that. We had a Gator basketball game to attend first, and that was most pressing, so off to O’Connell Center we went. I did a write-up on that leg of my trip in Part 1. When the game ended, we had plenty of time to spend before heading over to Cross Creek, so she took me to her old haunts, including the family farm. It goes without saying that she grew up in the house she still lives in, and it was built by her family in 1892. Trust me when I say there’s a lot of history in that home, and the interior is a testament to that.

With a moo moo here and a moo moo there, Nika1 raises beef cattle. EIEIO. If you look at the banner atop this website, those are her cows, and there are lots more where they came from, plus plenty of acreage, which you cannot fully comprehend by the images below.

I spent many years of my youth living on farms, and while some of you may find this somewhat odd, I truly enjoyed the smell of fresh grass and cow manure that wafted through the air that day. It brought back fond memories that dated back to my preteen and early teen years. It also reminded me not to step in it.

As we were leaving, an SUV pulled alongside us and Nika1 exchanged a few friendly words with the occupants about Indian digs on her property, most likely Timucua. Two mounds, to be precise. One is a burial mound and the other is ceremonial, meaning it’s a trove of pottery and other treasures offered to their gods. Both are ancient. Anthropologists from the University of Florida are carefully collecting the relics. Nika1 has discovered many arrowheads on her property over the years; some in the field across the street from her front yard. The area is rich in native American history, and that is of special interest to me. In the near future, I will publish another article on an Indian mound much closer to home, in Sanford, FL. I still have to “dig” for more information. But first, I’ve got two more parts of this story to go.

Next up: Cross Creek and how it impacted the area. Here is an excerpt from Part 3:

Cross Creek is one of those places you could pretty much conjure up in your head. You’d expect there to be a creek and bridge, of course, and not much else, and you’d be pretty much right. It’s a very small community, somewhat secluded, and above all else, a place that epitomizes Old Florida. Of her town, Rawlings wrote about the harmony of the wind and rain, the sun and seasons, the seeds and, above all else, time. Once you enter Cross Creek, you become a part of the mystery, the passion, and the oneness; and for a brief moment of eternity, time stands still. If there were ever a place on earth that beckons a creative mind, this is it.

As The World Burns

Brad Benson is the owner of a Hyundai car dealership in South Brunswick, NJ. In 2003, he offered Saddam Hussein a brand spanking new car if he would flee Iraq. That advertising campaign wasn’t successful and he pulled the ad after it ran only two days, replacing it with an apology for any offense that may have been taken by anyone, Muslim or otherwise.

To give you a little background, in the 1980’s, Benson established himself as an offensive lineman for the NY Giants, having played there for 12 seasons. Today, he is better known around the state for running his “Idiot Award” ads, where he’s singled out celebrities like Roger Clemens, Mel Gibson and Lindsay Lohan.

“We don’t have your typical car commercial,” he said, and to be frank, they have been quite effective. Three years ago, he was selling about 60 cars each month. Today, in spite of the present economy, that number has grown to over 500 cars per month.

The following story caught my attention for several reasons. I’m originally from NJ, having spent the first half of my life there, so I have a special connection with the state. Since 1981, I’ve lived in Florida, and this year, I had the opportunity to attend two University of Florida Gator football games thanks to the generosity and hospitality of a wonderful lady. She was born and raised in Gainesville, where the spectacle of pastor Terry Jones was met with great consternation. Jones, if you recall, had threatened to burn thousands of Qurans, the Muslim holy book, on September 11, in protest over plans to build a mosque and Islamic center two blocks away from Ground Zero, in lower Manhattan. Jones was never a fixture in Gainesville, and his self-titled “International Burn a Koran Day” became a conflagration of horrible proportion. He’s a total embarrassment to the sensible inhabitants of the respectable university town, where common sense prevails over opportunistic sensationalism and overzealous preachers of literal biblical translations.

Enter Brad Benson. In the midst of the international debacle,  he offered Terry Jones a new car if he promised to not burn one single Quran. Of course, September 11 came and went and no books were burned, but that was more than likely due to President Barack Obama’s very public urging, along with a phone call from Defense Secretary Robert Gates and a statement by Gen. David Petraeus, head of the U.S. mission in Afghanistan, who said that carrying out the plan would endanger American troops.

“I just didn’t think that was a good thing for our country right now,” Benson said about the Quran burning. Levelheadedness won out and the residents of Gainesville were able to breathe sighs of relief. Jones has since indicated that he will move away from the area, along with his flock from the Dove World Outreach Center. Hallelujah!

Meanwhile, a representative for Jones called Brad Benson’s car dealership to collect the 2011 Hyundai Accent, which retails for $14,200. At first, the dealer thought it was a hoax. “They said unless I was doing false advertising, they would like to arrange to pick up the car,” so he asked for a copy of Jones’s driver’s license. The reverend complied.

Of course, Jones told the Associated Press last Thursday that the offer of a car was not the reason why he chose not to burn the Muslim holy books. He said he hadn’t learned about the deal until after September 11.

Prior to making the determination, Benson asked his radio audience to help him decide whether to honor his promise. Over 2,600 people responded and the vast majority said he needed to keep his word. Views ran the gamut. One person suggested painting the car with verses from the Quran, the Talmud and the King James version of the Bible.

After the feedback, he said he decided to give Jones the car outright because he didn’t want to be connected to anything the pastor decides to do with it. “I don’t want to be involved in the politics of that.”

In the end, Terry Jones said he was not going to profit from the car. “We’re not keeping the car for ourselves.” Instead, he said he plans to donate it to an organization that helps abused Muslim women. Good luck finding one. Although the effort looks good on paper and in the media, it shows how out of touch the preacher is with the world and sharia, where many interpretations of Islamic law “are used to justify cruel punishments such as amputation and stoning as well as unequal treatment of women in inheritance, dress, and independence.”¹

If Jones can’t find an organization, perhaps he can establish one for abused Muslim women. If he does, let’s just pray that no one comes along and burns it to the ground with women, children and Qurans inside. By Muslims. How sad and ironic that would be.

Story collected from AP wire service

Well worth losing sleep over

FRIDAY

Last Friday evening, it rained. Of course, living in Florida, it can storm at a moment’s notice, bringing with it the wrath of rumbling thunder and lightning. Anyone who reads my blog understands that I take an Internet time out from 7:00 pm to 7:30 pm Monday through Friday to watch Jeopardy. Last Friday was no different until, suddenly, in the middle of the Double Jeopardy round and without warning, an intensely brilliant white light burst through the living room window, accompanied by an immediate explosion of sound, louder than anything I’d heard before. CRACK! In that split second, it was gone, and so was our electricity. Within minutes, power returned, but no cable. After the box rebooted, the living room TV cranked back up, but my show was over. Darn, I missed Final Jeopardy.

As sudden as the surge was, I quickly jumped to my feet to peer out the front window because I smelled electricity in the air. Sure enough, a wire was down in the front yard and it was hissing and spitting and reeling like a lithe snake in the dead of night, emitting an eerie orange glow that pierced the night air and glistened on the drops of rain that continued to fall. I walked to the phone to call 911, but there was no dial tone. We had switched to all cable only months earlier, so the phone and Internet were out-of-order. How funny, I thought, because the living room TV was working fine. I took out my cell phone and called to report the incident. Then, I called the cable company and the tech said the modem box that controls the phone and Internet was sending him no signal. Modem fried. The soonest anyone could come would be next Tuesday. To someone with a blog, that’s like… forever! Oh well, back to the matter at hand. I knew I would have the Internet the next day - for a few hours, at least.

Within minutes, the fire company arrived. There was no way I was going to set foot out there and risk a deathly jolt from the wet ground that lay ahead. As the fire/emergency crew assessed the situation, the power went off and off it stayed. The hissing line was dead in the water. Situation under control.

One of the things we know from living in the lightning capital of the world is to be ready, so a battery operated camping light alloted enough brightness for us to move around inside the house. Without power, the air conditioning wasn’t working, either, and it didn’t take long to warm up. After about 45 minutes, I decided to take a walk outside and scope the place out. I walked over to the power company truck and asked the driver when he expected it to come back on. Of course, he could only guess. He was awaiting another truck bringing someone to do the work. His job was to take a look and report. That’s after 27 years with the utility, he said. No more fixing lines. The younger ones do that now. One neighborhood child came by and asked the same question, but by that time we had already moved on to other topics. There was nothing any of us could do but wait. The driver and I talked for about an hour, until it was time for me to take my nightly insulin shot. He told me about some of his experiences with the company and how cutbacks have really streamlined things, but hadn’t made things better. It was more work, in other words, but with that came more hours and more pay. Not so bad, then. Not bad at all for a man in his fifties. I told him I write about the Anthony case. Interestingly, he was quite fascinated by it and he began asking questions like if she did it. He said his best friend’s son went to high school with her.

Someone drove by and stopped to ask what happened. He said he was heading up to the bar on the corner, G’s Lounge. The utility guy said, good luck, the power’s out there, too. He said that under normal conditions, it takes three surges to the substation to shut power off. In this particular case, after the third time, power remained on and he had to manually turn it off. I guess it fused something together. This took out a good part of the neighborhood. I asked him how many volts were in that downed wire.

“7200,” he responded.

Wow, that’s a lot of juice. We turned back to the Anthony case. I said that had I been many years younger and met her in a bar, I’d find her quite attractive, which is what your friend’s son must have thought. Of course, this would mean PRIOR to any murder. He agreed, but then he told me he asked the son if he had ever hit on her. Did he ever do anything with her? No, the son said. “She was passed around too much in high school. Everyone had her.”

That was an interesting observation and one that I wouldn’t ordinarily expect, but there are many surprises when it comes to this case. Of course, in a court of law, that would be hearsay and therefore, inadmissible, so take it the way you want, but it was a statement just the same.  Had it not been for the strike that burned a hole in the ground, I wouldn’t have known.

After a good conversation about other things, it was time to go inside. I wished him well and said good night. I went into the house and tried to sleep, but only lightly dozed until, just after midnight, the power returned and the cool, dry blast of the air conditioner fanned across my hot skin. Relief! Good, because I had a football game to go to and I wanted to be as refreshed as possible. Despite the lack of sleep, I woke up feeling fine. There was a big day ahead!

SATURDAY

Weeks earlier, I had published a 2-part series that began with Gainesville serial killer Danny Rolling, When karma strikes twice, and finished with John Huggins, Slowly, the wiles of justice churn. In the Huggins case, Jeff Ashton was one of the prosecutors and Chief Judge Belvin Perry presided. Of course, people like to comment and that’s where a lot of thought goes on. It brings my blog to life! During those ensuing comments, a dear reader and contributor, Nika1, offered to take me to a football game, the one against Kentucky, to be precise, and I took her up on that offer. She lives in Gainesville and told me about the wall in memory of those slain by Rolling in 1990.

In back-and-forth e-mails to-and-from my now defunct account, we set the trip up and finished it with a phone call. I didn’t want to drive my car that distance. She suggested taking the Red Coach. The Red Coach? I had never heard of it, but I took a good look. How could I not? It’s first-class all the way, with wide leather seats that fold down almost into a bed. There’s a movie, and wi-fi, to boot. The best part? It’s only $15 each way. Heck, it would probably cost me $20 in gas anyway. All I had to do was drive down to the airport and park. For free.

While waiting to board, riders were dropped off from Miami. I spoke to one gentleman from Ocala who knows the Brantley family, football players all. John Brantley IV is the Gator quarterback. It was nice to learn a little more background before the game.

Off we went! I brought my computer along to catch up on e-mails and comments, but alas, the wi-fi was not working. I tried to sleep a little, but Nancy Drew was blaring from the speaker above me. Our movie du jour.

When the bus arrived in Gainesville, Nika1 was waiting. I knew, as soon as I saw her, that she was my blogging friend and not there for anyone else. I got out and we lightly embraced. Aaaah, such a warm and friendly greeting! We walked over to her vehicle and stowed my belongings. I must tell you that sitting on the front passenger seat were a Gator t-shirt and hat, both brand new. Without hesitation, I took my shirt off in the parking lot to the delight of no one, but I was in Gator country, by golly, and I’m a Gator.

Off we went!

People were everywhere, all dressed in orange and blue, the university’s colors. Young, old, and everything in between, wore nothing else. We parked and took a walk to one of the book stores. The aromas of tailgating barbecues wafted in the air. The book store was a sort of mall with two food courts. We were hungry and it was time to eat. The bus left at 12:30 and arrived just before 3:00. The game wasn’t set to begin until 7:00, so there was plenty of time to kill. I’ll tell you, by the time the day was over, we must have walked 10 miles, but it did me a lot of good. As we milled around the campus, which is vast, she pointed out things of importance.

Tim Tebow is one classy act. That’s all I need to say about him. He’s above the rest, but he’d never admit it. Inside this building sits the NCAA Championship trophy. I saw it through a window. Game day, it’s locked up tight. Too many people.

There were plenty of sites to see and Nika1 was thrilled to show me everything. I had been to a number of games in the past, but not for years, and it was only to go up, see the game, and return home. This was a much more personal look, and I was eager to see as much as I could.

Soon, it would be time for the Gator Walk, where the football players, coaches and trainers walk down the street and into the massive stadium. It’s almost like a parade.

Cheerleaders chanted, to the excitement of the awaiting crowd…

One more…

Oh, heck… just one more…

It was at this time I turned to Nika1 and told her I will now admit I’m getting old. You see, each one of those girls looked, to me, to be no more than high school age. I couldn’t look at them as anything more than children. Time to move on…

The Gator Walk was about to begin!

We stood alongside a Gainesville police officer. He was one of the friendliest guys you’d ever want to meet. He said the motorcycle cop seen here, front and left, was hit by a car last year at a game and broke his left arm. I remember reading about it in the Sentinel or online. Nika1 had told me about how security was so beefed up for the game two weeks earlier against USF. The crazy preacher was going to burn Qurans and the stadium was an easy terrorist target. Fortunately, the threat abated and nothing happened, but 400 extra FBI and other federal/state officers were on hand. Good thing, too, because she said it was so brutally hot, people were dropping like flies. The extra security came to the rescue. She asked our friendly officer how he survived the heat. He said he prepares himself the night before by drinking lots of pickle juice. Pickle juice?!Yes, he learned it years ago as a boy growing up on a Gainesville area farm. Fascinating!

Along came the entourage…

Here they come! Nika1 told me head coach Urban Meyer makes his players wear a clean shirt and tie to the game. It instills discipline and shows respect.

If you look to your right in the above picture, you’ll spot Urban, also sporting a tie.

We still had over an hour to go before the doors opened, but we made the best of our time. There was plenty to do, believe me. A lot of vendors are set up all around the stadium. One is the insurance company, Nationwide, handing out small towels to dip in a trough filled with ice and water. You dab your hot face and neck to help stay cool. Fortunately, this was a night game and it wasn’t as hot as a day game.

Finally, we were let in. When I arrived at the bus station and we drove away, I noticed her drawl, but wasn’t completely sure where she was from. Why, right here in Gainesville, born and raised. Aha! At the game, she said she has been a season ticket holder for 36 years. That’s a dedicated Gator! She knew the people who sat around us, obviously, and before the game began, her niece and nephew arrived with their young daughter. They were just as welcoming.

Here’s the view from where we sat. Trust me, there’s no such thing as a bad seat and these were just perfect.

The game was going to begin soon and I came to watch. There’s a lot of history in The Swamp.

I took no pictures of the game. I wanted to see everything with my eyes, not through a camera lens.

It was a thrilling game. The Gators scored first and went on to win 48-14. The announced crowd was over 90,000 people. I had a wonderful and memorable trip, but there was one sad note. When the third quarter ends, it’s tradition to stand and sing together, We are the Boys from Old Florida. It’s sort of like the seventh-inning stretch, only college football. Then, the final quarter began. Within a minute after the song ended and play began, someone collapsed about 4 or 5 rows above and to the left of us. All I could see was someone frantically performing CPR on a person laid out on the bench. I never did see the gentleman. Police officers situated in close proximity jumped into action. Within minutes, a uniformed paramedic arrived and he was taken out. Everyone kept turning to look at the game and what was going on with him. When one officer passed by me, I asked how things had gone. Not so well, he answered. I asked him how old the guy was. He said very old. The officer was probably in his late 30s. When it was quite obvious the Gators had a lock on the game, Nika1 said we should probably leave before the crowd. I agreed, but on the way out, I stopped and asked another officer. I was concerned about the poor man. This officer was about my age. How old was the guy, I asked him. Oh, in his late 50s, early 60s. I guess age is relative depending on who you ask. He said it didn’t look good. The man was not breathing and his heart had stopped.

I want to take a moment to remember Jerry Lee McGriff, of Starke. A true-blue Gator fan, he died watching his beloved team. My sympathies go out to his family and friends. You can read more here.

SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY

When Nika1 and I were enjoying our pre-game lunch together - a lunch, I might add, she refused to let me buy - I mentioned that she must be a very trusting soul. Here I was, a virtual stranger, and she was ready and ever so willing to open her arms in friendship. She even offered me a place to sleep for a few hours until the bus returned at 3:30 am to take me home. She admitted that she is a very trusting person and always has been, but she also said she pretty much knew what sort of character I was from my writing. That’s a nice thing to know, that people trust me. I am harmless, after all, but it goes deeper than that. While Gainesville is a University city with a college, small-town feel, Nika1 exuded friendship and I was welcomed from the moment I stepped off that bus until I left to return to Orlando.

She lives in a very rural town south of Gainesville, and not far from Cross Creek, home of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. No? The name doesn’t ring a bell? Yes, it does. She was an author who won a Pulitzer for writing a book, The Yearling. Perhaps, you’ve heard of it.

There’s something inherently romantic about the deep south. That’s why my best friend Stewart and I like to take road trips. Over the many years of living in Florida, I’ve grown to love and admire the pockets of land still left that are truly remnants of Old Florida. Where Nika1 lives is just such a place. It’s something you can’t really explain. Although her house was built in the late 1800s, it’s more of a feeling and you know it when you’re there. It is a step back into a time when post cards and billboards didn’t exist. No roadside attractions. Citrus groves and cattle ranches abounded and you kicked your feet up on the front porch of your homestead at the end of a long day. Along with that is the southern hospitality we’ve all heard about. Nika1 is the embodiment of that, pure and simple. Not only did I have a bed to put my weary feet and head on, she had two books for me to take home, BEYOND THE BODY FARM and DEATH’S ACRE, both written by Dr. Bill Bass and Jon Jefferson. Tucked into one of those books were two tickets to the Gator’s homecoming game against Mississippi State, a game she can’t attend.

When I awoke after a couple of hours sleep, freshly brewed coffee awaited me, along with two breakfast sausage crescents, a banana, an orange juice and a bottle of water for the ride back.

While sitting at the bus stop in the dead of morning, we talked once more about the Rolling murders. She has a real sense of history. She said that the poor girl whose head was separated and posed on a bookshelf was an intern with the Gainesville police department. It was so sickening, seven officers left their jobs after they saw her. You may find it to be an odd thing to discuss, but at just after 3:00 am sitting in a parking lot, you keep your doors locked. So does the whole town because of people like him.

Yup, life is a lot simpler in the land where Nika1 lives. It’s too bad, but even there, she’s got to lock her doors at night.

I rolled into town about a quarter to six. I had practically missed a whole night of sleep, but it was well, well worth it. What better way to lose sleep than over a Gator game spent with a lovely person, surrounded by a cast of thousands? Nika1? I may have just met you, but I feel like we’ve known each other for years.

Tonight, the Gators face #1 ranked Alabama. Good thing it’s a home game, but still, this one scares me. Thank you, Nika1, for everything. Something tells me I know exactly where you are right now, and your TV is already warmed up and ready to go.

When karma strikes twice

At 6:13 PM EDT on October 26, 2006, Danny Harold Rolling took his final breath. Florida’s most notorious serial killer since Ted Bundy was executed by lethal injection for raping and carving up five college students in a ghastly spree that horrified and terrorized the University of Florida’s campus in Gainesville back in August of 1990, just as the fall semester got underway. Each one was murdered with a hunting knife. Some were mutilated, sexually molested and put in gruesome poses. One of his victim’s severed head was placed on a shelf, her body posed in a seated position.

Just before his execution, he confessed to the November 1989 murders of a 55-year-old man in Shreveport, Louisiana, his 24-year-old daughter and her 8-year-old son.

One of his victims at UF was Sonja Larson, a freshman who was killed along with her roommate in the apartment they shared. Her goal was to become a teacher. On that fateful night, she and her roommate, Christina Powell, went to a local Walmart to buy a few things. Danny Rolling was a drifter who just happened to be in the store at the same time. He followed the women back to their apartment and attacked them in their sleep.

Her brother, Jim Larson, who lives in Orlando, said, “He confessed to killing five people. He cut their heads off, then played with them. He did the worst things you can possibly do to somebody…”

During the trial, he was so  shocked by the details that at one point, he curled into a ball on the floor and sobbed. He might have never moved from that spot had it not been for his wife, Carla. She cradled him as he cried and sat with him during the remainder of the trial. She convinced him that evil had not infested the entire world, despite it touching so close to home. She was his guide and mentor; his beacon of hope and strength.

Fast forward seven years. Carla Larson got up on the morning of June 10, 1997, to go to work as a building engineer for Centex Rooney Construction Company. The project, a resort called Coronado Springs, was on Walt Disney World property. It was an ordinary day until she left for lunch and never came back. She went to a nearby Publix supermarket to buy grapes and strawberries when a small time convict named John Huggins kidnapped her in the parking lot, drove to a remote field, and strangled her, partially burying her in a shallow grave and covering her with leaves.

What did Jim Larson do to deserve this? They had a one-year-old daughter together. It was her idea, but he didn’t want to bring a child up in a world where murderers like Danny Rolling stalked innocent victims. After extensive counseling, Jim found inner peace and their daughter was born. They had bought a small house in the suburbs of Orlando, in College Park. They installed new locks and a home security system. They bought a Rottweiler. Carla drove a big Ford Explorer. Jim made sure he did everything he could do to keep his family safe.

John Huggins was a Sanford landscaper who had been in and out of trouble with the law most of his life. He was on vacation with his estranged wife, Angel, and their children, staying at a hotel directly across the street from that Publix. In broad daylight, he punched Carla in the stomach, forced her into her Explorer, and drove away, never to be seen alive again. Two days later, her nude body was found, partially clad in a beach towel. She was badly decomposed after only two days in the hot summer sun, but one of the medical examiner’s photographs suggested the possibility of a pre-mortem sexual injury. In other words, rape, without all of the details of the autopsy report. At the time, Dr. Sashi Gore was the Chief Medical Examiner for Orange and Osceola Counties. A different Dr. G back then.

I distinctly remember this murder. It’s funny how the mind plays tricks. After his arrest, John Huggins looked like an ordinary guy to me, unlike a murderer, but then again, what is a murderer supposed to look like? Someone pleasing to the eye, like Casey Anthony or Ted Bundy? When Jim Larson was interviewed on TV, he acted so unemotional and flat, he became a prime suspect in the minds of viewers. He’s hiding something! I even hesitated to believe him because of his indifference. He talked to the media, never shedding a tear, and never showing anger or sorrow. When he spoke, it was insipid, with a prosaic stare. Law enforcement officials were so perplexed by his strange behavior, they asked him to take a lie detector test, just to see if he was somehow involved. Of course, his only involvement was the incredible love he felt for his wife. It lasts to this very day. The murders of his sister seven years earlier, and now his wife, had completely drained him.

On the afternoon of the murder, Carla’s white Explorer was seen speeding away from what turned out to be her temporary grave, along the Orange-Osceola county border. Huggins was trying to patch up his broken marriage. He and his family had been staying in motel and hotel rooms mostly around the Melbourne area where his wife’s mother lived, before coming to Orlando. Angel, his second wife, later told police that her husband was gone at lunchtime that day and returned sometime later, all sweaty and nervous. She soon left with the children to stay with her mother, Fay, leaving Huggins behind.

Later that day, he arrived at Fay’s house driving a white SUV that matched the general description of Carla’s. It was a rental, he said. Although he and his wife were in the process of a divorce, they continued to stay together in the coastal area until her sister, Tammy, arrived to visit. During that time she and Huggins began a relationship. What happened next was something I remember because it was so obvious what this was all about.

Kevin Smith, who lived nearby, was a friend of Huggins. He had agreed to let him keep the SUV at his house for a few days. On the evening of October 26, police received a phone call that an SUV was engulfed in flames in a vacant lot near Kevin’s house. Instinctively, most of us knew what it was, and a subsequent investigation proved it was Carla’s and it was set on fire intentionally.

On the following day, seventeen days after Carla’s murder, Tammy returned to her home in Maryland with John in tow. Shortly after they left, Angel watched America’s Most Wanted, which featured Carla’s murder. She had wondered where John got the SUV and never believed his story. She called the show and reported that she suspected her husband of the murder. As a result of that call, investigators conducted two extensive searches of Fay’s house, but were unable to find anything incriminating. Angel and her mother searched, too, and one day while getting a can of bug spray out of the back yard shed, Fay noticed a screwdriver on top of an electrical box. On a whim, she unscrewed the lid, and found jewelry inside - jewelry that was later found to belong to Carla, including her pear-shaped diamond engagement ring.

John Huggins was arrested in Maryland and extradited back to Florida. After his indictment in front of an Orange County grand jury, he requested a change of venue, which was granted and transferred to Jacksonville in Duval County. On February 3, 1999, Huggins was convicted of first-degree murder, carjacking, robbery and kidnapping. During the sentencing phase, Jim Larson told the jury that, ”One night Carla and I were sitting on a bench outside her dorm room. We were just talking. Carla got up to do something. She walked a few steps and turned around and looked at me. It was just a moment. But when our eyes met, it was as if our souls touched one another. I smiled back at her. I felt so good my eyes filled with tears. I loved her so much. We set our wedding date for Dec. 1, 1990, after her graduation from college.”

After considering the aggravators and mitigators, the jury recommended the death penalty by an 8-4 vote. The court agreed, and John Steven Huggins was sentenced to death. Ironically, Danny Rolling and John Huggins were on death row together. Two murders unrelated except for one common thread - a man, two women and two families who did nothing in life to deserve this. Neither did Jim and Carla’s daughter, a mere one-year-old at the time, much too young to sin, and much too young to know anything about bad karma.

This is the end of PART ONE. Where am I going with this? Wait and see. The answer will come this week, when I weave it all together with what we are witnessing today in a case that has so much national exposure, it dwarfs the magnitude of Carla’s murder in scale, but certainly not in importance.

TO READ PART 2, CLICK HERE

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BACKGROUND CHECKS

Texas Equitable

"My bus runneth over."

I can almost picture a sign like that hanging on the wall of a particular attorney's office.

Princeton University's WordNet describes equitable as fair to all parties as dictated by reason and conscience; "equitable treatment of all citizens". Three important words jump out at us - fair, reason, and conscience. I have come to believe that, during the course of two years, Casey Anthony's defense has been anything but that. A recurring theme continues to cling to the backs of our minds; who else will the defense throw under the bus?

When Casey Anthony forced the hand of an extremely fair and equitable judge, that being the Honorable Stan Strickland, it was unconscionable. What we caught was a real life glimpse, a puzzling ponderance, into the stupefying notions of her defense and what they would be capable of doing to anything that stands in their way, past, present and future, if necessary. Trust me, I felt the wrath, but in the end, it was nothing personal because this team has no conscience. The age old idiom flares its nostrils and cries it's a dog eat dog world, only in real life, some people are mutts; wolves in fox's clothing. Yes, the first to fall, but not from grace, was the judge, who is regarded as one of Florida's finest. Next came Roy Kronk, whose alleged dalliances have nothing to do with this case. Why attack a man's integrity? Why would this defense foolishly infer that he was capable of murdering Caylee Anthony? When that idea fell through the cracks, the defense moved on. After all, the bottom line was that Roy had all the evidence he needed to prove he had nothing to do with the toddler's death. Of course, we cannot leave Richard and Jesse Grund behind. The heavy tire tracks are still indented in their reputations, unscathed prior to this debacle. They haven't had a chance to scrape themselves up from the defense road to virtual perdition.

Now, we're faced with Tim Miller and Texas EquuSearch. A fierce and dedicated fighter who sought nothing more than closure and justice for Caylee's death, he, too, has come under the tread of Jose Baez's and J. Cheney Mason's tragic bus. Prior to Mason's entry into this case, the defense claimed that Casey was in jail when the body of the little girl was tossed away for vermin to devour. Therefore, she couldn't have done it. Dr. John Schultz, Professor of Anthropology at the University of Florida, concluded that the body had been placed in the woods off Suburban Drive before or soon after June 17th. Some of the evidence he examined to make this determination included the amount of decay on the bones, the scatter patterns of those bones from animal disturbances, leaf growth through the bags and the remains, and positive indications she was in those woods during heavy summer rains because of muck deposits on bones.

Those are the facts. What the defense will try to prove is that there's no proof Casey placed the corpse there. They will also dispute the findings of Schultz and Dr. Jan Garavaglia, the Orange/Osceola Medical Examiner, who concurs. No one saw Casey do it, therefore, it could be anyone else, including a searcher.

One thing that has captured my mind is this obsession with TES records. I understand it's the defense's responsibility to dig deep into all possible clues; to search for the, sometimes, elusive thread of hope, but I smell a set-up. The bus is rolling and looking for new victims; new lives to destroy in its path. Although gone, Todd Macaluso confidently declared a year ago that the body was placed there while Casey was incarcerated. Mason switched gears and said that no one entered the woods when TES searched the area in September of 2008. He acknowledged the area was flooded. This was a major revelation except for one thing – he didn't state that it couldn't have been anyone else who, in fact, did look on their own time and off the documented records kept by Tim Miller's group, almost 4,000 strong. It still begs the question, if no one from TES searched there in September, why the incessant need to examine all those records? Because the body could have been tossed in November or December by a TES straggler. Scrutiny is the key element.

The tack this defense is taking is not unusual. It will rely on discrediting the state's evidence, which is predominantly circumstantial. Call it mucking. All the defense has to do is debunk whatever it can, and never mount a credible attack based on their client's innocence. That's why they never looked for Zenaida Gonzalez. She doesn't exist and never did. Why seek what isn't there? Casey will never take the stand and she will never seek a plea. Why should she?

In my opinion, Baez & Company will scour over those records. Openly, Baez said, “We just want to be as thorough as we possibly can.” Behind closed doors, it may be another matter. When Chief Judge Belvin Perry granted the defense full access to those records with the stipulation that they not be allowed to publicize any private information about the searchers, it was a victory of sorts. Why? Because 4,000 people will have their cans of worms opened and the skeletons in their closets will be scrutinized beyond reproach.

What will stop this team from stretching out their arms and pointing fingers at several searchers as possible suspects fully capable of murder? Why couldn't it have been someone else, a real “Zenaida” who stole the girl and joined the search in order to hide her? Holy mackerel! The mother lode! If a Zenaida Gonzalez exists, it will be one from TES. Under an assumed name, of course.

In the final quarter of 2008, I was not healthy enough to help search for the missing toddler. Today, I'm almost glad, because I would now be one of the many names the defense team could target. Oh well, they're going to be going after people with criminal records and disgruntled ex-spouses. In my case, it's immaterial. In life, I try to be fair. I know how to reason, and I have a conscience. Just like Tim Miller and all those searchers, who only wanted to help. From the defense, all I'm smelling are exhaust fumes because my bus already came and went. Tim's is on its way. That's not very equitable, is it?

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